The Tales of Dean
by TheOneYouCallWe
Summary: Stories of Dean’s exploits in those 4 years without his emoteen sidekick, aka Sam Bitchface Winchester. Crack. No pairings. Chapter 2: Under Pressure. Rated for language.
1. China Grove

The Tales of Dean

Summary: Stories of Dean's exploits in those 4 years without his emoteen sidekick, aka Sam Bitchface Winchester. Crack.

Ramblings: Pretty much all based off of songs, mostly The Doobie Brothers and Bon Jovi. Because _China Grove = _Dean Superman Winchester (YOU KNOW HE CALLS HIMSELF THAT).

Ramblings2: Dean is like a hot hillbilly/redneck or something. 8D

**Chapter 1: The Day After**

Yeah, Sam had left him. He had shouted, had thrown a tantrum—Sammy, that is—had pulled his classic bitchface, and then stormed out like a woman on the rag. Dean supposed Sammy had wanted to be stopped or something, but hey, Sammy was Sammy, and if Sam wanted to go off to _college—_ew, much?—and be a professor or lawyer or whatever he had said, his goddamn loss.

He also supposed he should be feeling a bit more pissed off and sad that his little sidekick had left him, but all Dean could feel right now was an assload of _fucking joy._ No more Emoteen cramping his style! No more Bitchface pouting every time Dean was going to get laid! _No more having to go home early cause Sammy 'wasn't old enough to drink'!_

Psh. You're _always_ old enough to drink.

He was fucking _free!_

"Fuck you all, I'm getting _laid_ tonight!" He shouted out of the open window, whooping with joy as the Impala screamed out The Doobie Brother's _China Grove._ Finally, he could start playing his art rock again! He only ever played Metallica or AC/DC because Sam would bitch for_ever_ about his hate for _Cross Roads_ or how Art Rock wasn't real rock.

Little prick. Sam disliked AC/DC too, but complained less about it.

_'When the sun comes up on a sleepy little town,_

_Down around San Antone,_

_And the folks are risin' for another day,_

_Round about their homes,_

_The people of the town are strange,_

_And they're proud of where they came'_

He grinned to himself, loving the wind against his face—he had taken off the removable hood of the convertible—again, something he could never do with Sammy around—and was just enjoying his freedom from The Curse, aka his baby brother.

Not that he was much of a baby anymore. Little brat was taller than _he_ was! How dare he grow up so tall!

"Next time I see him, I'm calling him a Sasquatch," he growled to himself momentarily, before breaking out into another Labrador-type grin. As the song came to another chorus, he took his hands off the wheel completely, making his hands into the 'rock 'n roll' symbol—or to some Texans, the 'longhorn'—and started headbanging—which didn't really work much, what with having short hair, but hey! It's the thought that counts, right?

_'We're talkin' bout the China Grove, woah oh oh,_

_Oh oh, China Grove_

_But evry'day there's a new thing comin,'_

_The ways of an oriental view,_

_The sheriff and his buddies_

_With their samurai swords;_

_You can even hear the music at night._

_And although it's a part of The Lone Star State,_

_People don't seem to care;_

_They just keep on lookin' to the East.'_

The Impala swerved some as he closed his eyes, still rocking out violently, as the rock came to its climax, guitar chords bleeding through the speakers loud and hard.

_"Talkin'—talkin' bout China Grove, woah—oh; China Grove!"_


	2. Under Pressure

Under Pressure

Summary: It's Dean's first night away from the brat that is Sammy Winchester, so he does what he always wanted to—he gets blind drunk.

Ramblings: Had this idea for a bit. Inspired by Freddy Wexler's "Dance."

Note: I don't know _shit_ about alcohol. Deal. D:

* * *

_"…dude."_ Dean's jaw dropped, before he came to his senses and closed it shut. There was a bar—and not just an bar, but a real _decent_ one! There was a jukebox and women and jager—fucking _jager! _He had _missed_ the German alcohol!—and everything he could want!

And no Sammy!

For one brief moment, Dean actually believed in a God.

"Hit me up again, Barbie!" He called to the tie-dye blonde, who huffed and stormed over, sloshing the alcohol over the brim of the cup lazily. However, he didn't seem to give a shit, as he was already three shots to the wind and couldn't tell you what he _drove._ He narrowly avoided faceplanting onto the wet and stick bar, resting his head on his head, meanwhile eyeing some of the pretty, pretty girls in the bar. Hm, they were indeed quite pretty, but none that he really wanted…

Deiciding that he likely wasn't going to get laid tonight, he opted to tell the world of his amazing choice in music (when drunk) and positively _awful_ singing voice. Stumbling to the jukebox, he blearily pressed his face against the glass, skimming the records. Led Zeppelin, not in the mood; AC/DC, fucking hate it, David Bowie, maybe…

"Jackpot!" He squealed, stumbling, the crowd around him paying no mind. Pressing the "4" button, he felt a sense of giddyness come over him as the collaborative song "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie begin to blare through the scratchy speakers. He was so intensely happy, he…well, he began to air-guitar.

And sing.

Badly.

Thank God for Freddy Mercury!

Or until Dean got his ass kicked out 2 minutes later for 'disturbing the peace.' Not that Dean really remembered it; he passed out in the Impala shortly after, but not before puking his stomach up beside it—he'd _never_ hurt or befoul his baby, no matter what state of mind.

_Insanity laughs; under pressure, we're cracking_

_ Can't we give ourselves one more chance?_

_ Why can't we give love one more chance?_

_ Cause love's such an old-fashioned word_

_ And love dares you to care for the people on the edge of the night_

_ And love dares you to change our way of caring about our selves_

_ This is our last dance; This is ourselves; Under pressure_


End file.
